


Take My Breath Away

by DarkestMuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Don't copy to another site, Grief, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock is sad, union jack pillow is a trigger for poor sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24557014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkestMuse/pseuds/DarkestMuse
Summary: And he’s shaking even harder now and he’s pretty sure that his bones are rattling and there’s a voice that’s screaming, wailing, distracting him from thinking ...if John were here...“I am dying,” he tried to growl, but it just came out quite pitifully. “Please, I am dying and I need a doctor. My doctor...my John…”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	Take My Breath Away

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. This is my first fic here on AO3 and I've been in love with the Sherlock fandom for about a year now, so I felt it was probably time to dip my toe in these fathomless waters and put my work out there. See you at the bottom!

Sherlock swears that he’ll never tire of the voice that is exasperation laced with fondness as it echoes about the flat, bouncing off walls that seem infused with his presence and rugs where he left his mark. His shadow is everywhere, in the darkness cast by the flickering flames and lurking like a persistent ghost in the kitchen.

Sherlock swears he can see him moving about in there, muttering to himself and shaking his head as he boxes up body parts and wipes the counter top. There are two cups of tea on the marble that he swears were steaming just a moment ago because _he’d_ just bounded down the stairs and poured them.

There’s the smell of tea and sand and gunpowder in the air and Sherlock knows that he’s home, knows it because home is where there are two worn armchairs that have been getting closer and closer over the years and a skull on the mantel and (possibly definitely toxic) experiments taking up space on the kitchen table because they always eat on the old sofa _anyway_ and home is here where he can _be_ and where he turns from _him_ into _them_ and--

Now there’s a curious feeling in his chest that he takes a moment to puzzle over because Sherlock Holmes has never felt this way before. Over the past year he’d been forcing him to feel things; from surprise to awe and wonder to worry and crippling fear and hunger _(God, he was so voraciously hungry)_ and a passion that set his body alight like they’d poured gasoline in his veins and set it aflame.

He kind of felt like that now. Slightly bereft, somewhat lost and he found his vision was swimming and- _was he drugged?_ Mycroft was there and he was looking concerned(?) and there was that detective...his brain was telling him Graham but he was sure that _he’d_ called him something else…

_“-Jesus-”_

_“-breathe, Sherlock-”_

And he was so confused because of course he was breathing. He had to have been, if his brain was still working. Which it was. Obviously. And there was a burning in his chest like someone had stoked the flames back to life and he was gulping in air, dammit, so why did it still hurt?

“I can’t…” he found himself saying, and he didn’t sound like himself at all. No, it was all wrong. His voice was warbling and he couldn’t catch his breath when _all he needed to do was breathe!_ He was clutching at his chest and the scratches from his blunt nails hardly registered because he was on fire and it was _all so wrong_.

Sherlock was scrabbling at his skin, trying desperately to end this nightmare. _God, it hurt_. He needed... _he needed-_

“I...I need John. Where’s John?” His voice was hoarse again, and there was a sharp stab of pain and his head was whipping around because this was home and John was always home, John was home; John was a doctor and doctors took care of people and besides, John had always loved taking care of him even if he did cluck his tongue in disapproval because Sherlock had jumped straight into the Thames after a deranged psychopath.

Nobody was answering him, as if they couldn’t see that if he didn’t have the doctor here and by his side soon, he’d die. Didn’t they get it? He _needed_ John Watson, as a matter of life and death.

“Where’s John?” he repeated, and winced at how weak he still sounded. Mycroft had something in his eyes and he wasn’t sure what it was. He hadn’t seen it on his brother since they were children playing in the woods surrounding their estate and Sherlock had wandered too far in and ended up lost for six and a half hours.

Looking at Lestrade, he could detect the pity that was growing in the older man’s eyes.

_Pity. What a useless emotion._

A stab of pain. _He needed John._

He went to open his mouth and repeat his question (again for these bloody simpletons) but his brother beat him to it. “Now, Sherlock, being purposefully obtuse won’t change the facts.”

Before he’d even finished speaking, Sherlock was shaking his head. They didn’t understand! This fire, this raging inferno was going to eat him alive if they didn’t get who he _needed._

“Wrong,” he croaked, shivering fiercely as a sudden chill wracked his spine. He felt bile rise in his throat but swallowed it down. “I...I need-”

“You know very well that there is a distinction between wanting and needing, Sherlock. Right now, what you want and what you need are not compatible.” His voice was missing a certain cutting bite to it but he couldn’t very well be expected to dwell on that when his chest was on fire.

He shook his head again. _Wrong._

“I am dying,” he tried to growl, but it just came out quite pitifully. “Please, I am dying and I need a doctor. My doctor...my John…” Another bout of pain wracked his ribs and the shivers intensified and if it didn’t hurt so much Sherlock would be amazed at how acutely contrasting temperatures could wreak so much havoc in so short a space of time.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak again, and from the scowl on his face Sherlock could deduce that the barbed words would only further delay the arrival of his doctor. _Seriously, was the pompous, big-nosed fool really so eager to see him perish?_

Then Lestrade was crouching down so that he was eye-level with Sherlock, who had at some point curled up on the ground with his back pressed into the worn red chair that had the Union Jack sitting so peacefully in it, one hand clutching at the fabric and the other at his chest.

For a second, all he could focus on were the grey hairs on the man’s head that seemed more silver than grey and _no it’s all wrong because his hair wasn’t silver it was a golden blonde with soft greys and some auburn and was it brown or slightly ginger or rather more a faded oak…_

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s voice cut in and the curly haired detective found himself wrenched out of fascinating musings on just how many shades of blonde one head could have and back onto the fact that he was _dying._ “Sherlock…” the man licked his lips and cleared his throat and there was something...his brows raised and his chin raised and he was squinting slightly through red-rimmed eyes.

 _Grief_ , his brain supplied. Why would Lestrade be grieving? Had someone died? Now his hands are shaking as his head is, and his vision is swimming again and the oxygen seems to be sucked from the room because he can’t catch his breath. There’s a pulsing under his skin, where he supposes his heart is meant to be and there’s sweat rolling down his face and-

“Sherlock, John is-” Lestrade chokes and all Sherlock can say and think and believe is _no, wrong_. He can’t finish the sentence because it’s not true, can’t be true; he won’t allow it to be true.

“John’s dead, Sherlock. I’m so sorry but he’s dead.”

And he’s shaking even harder now and he’s pretty sure that his bones are rattling and there’s a voice that’s screaming, wailing, distracting him from _thinking_ because if he could just think, if he could just take a second and if this fire were to be put out and if he could warm up and if John were here then he’d be able to think but as it stands his brain will never work again because its going over everything, every tiny detail from the creases in Mycroft’s shirt to Lestrade’s hand-tousled hair and the sudden bags under his eyes. His stupid brain can’t stop playing their last interaction on a loop because he can’t be-- he’s not _allowed_ to be--

The last conscious thoughts he has is _no, they’re all wrong._

**Author's Note:**

> So that's it! I'm not planning on making this into multi-chapter story but let me know what you think. Was it terrible?  
> I've been working for eons on a Johniarty fic that I've got cooking in my documents, so expect some more on that front. I think I've also got a few more oneshot Johnlocks collecting dust so I'll probably polish them up and put them out there. We'll see.  
> Thanks for reading  
> (Also let me know if there are any more tags that I should add)  
> \- DarkestMuse


End file.
